


interlaced

by curiositykilled



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hydra (Marvel), James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers-centric, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Misunderstandings, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, everything after CATWS is a dumpster fire anyway lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23833036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: It was funny, Bucky thought as they were thrown back through the wall. He’d really thought they were getting out of this one unscathed.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35





	interlaced

It had been a long fucking day.

Natasha started it off by roping him into this idiot mission at the crack of dawn, like he hadn’t made it perfectly clear he was done being anyone’s attack dog. She hadn’t even had the courtesy to ask or pretend like she was coercing him; she’d just walked straight in through the door and dropped a tablet on his lap.

“You’re going to want to come for this one,” she’d said, leaning her elbows on the back of the couch.

He’d pretended at disinterest, intentionally reading the open file as slowly as he could. Annoyance rolled up fast when he skimmed over the first lines and realized he did, in fact, want to come along.

“So?” she said. “Suit up.”

“I’m not SHIELD,” he objected for the sake of his pride.

Al chose that moment to hop up onto the sofa, ignoring Bucky entirely in favor of sauntering across the back and rubbing his head against Natasha’s arm. Smiling, she reached across with her opposite hand to scritch under his chin.

“Call it freelancing,” she suggested without looking away from the cat. “Wilson’s calling it a camping trip.”

Of course he was. Bucky didn’t roll his eyes, but only because he was too old for that shit. He’d perfected his done-with-the-world look by the time he was twenty-five, anyway.

“And Rogers?” he asked.

She hadn’t mentioned him, but he knew that was an intentional omission. Pointless, anyway. As if he’d let any of these burn-‘em-down missions pass him by.

Smoothing a finger back along the crest of Al’s skull, she folded her hand back over her arm and turned to him. Her gaze was flat and opaque; even after everything, he’d never been able to crack that expression. It was assessment, analysis, but the results were unreadable.

“Revenge.”

Twenty-three hours later, he regretted ever listening to her.

No one had died — or, well, a lot of people had died, but not civilians and not their team. That was about all the positivity he could muster. This had been a testing site, a HYDRA lab dedicated to making knock-off versions of the serum. They’d gotten close with the shit running through his veins and refined and redesigned it for the Red Room’s infinity serum, but HYDRA had never known when to say ‘good enough.’ It was go big or go home, only fascist death cults didn’t have any home.

No one had died, but they’d been too late to save the dead. Some were still in their cells, others frosted over in cryotanks. He didn’t know any of them, but he knew their looks: young or old, they’d all come here desperate and hungry. Some still had needle tracks up their arms, a few clutched dog tags. One, a small woman curled into a rictus crouch, held tight to a photo of a child that shared her same dark skin and brown eyes. A matching pair stared glassy and empty from her face.

Passing from cell to cell, anger and guilt twined into an ouroboros in his gut. What had HYDRA told them? That it was a medical trial? That they’d not only get compensation but also free healthcare? That, for some of them, they’d get a bed and safe place to rest for the first time in years? The serum curled all ills; there was no shortage of promises they could have made. Cancer, asthma, chronic debilitating pain no doctor had ever taken seriously — it was a wonder drug and they could tailor their pitch to the soft spot of everyone they ensnared. All they had to do was omit certain details — the death rate, the side effects, the true purpose behind it all. Governments had been doing the same for decades.

They’d fanned out to comb through the facility, but he’d still wound up running into Rogers down in the cell block. He’d been standing in front of a cryotube, jaw tight and hands curled into fists at his sides. The body inside wasn’t any adult but a kid, still soft in the face and with hands curled loose around nothing where they floated. Blue light painted icy planes of Steve’s face, turned his eyes glacial.

He’d looked up at Bucky’s footsteps, frozen with his eyes too open and honest, and then looked away as his shoulders hunched up. Bucky recognized that guilt, that futile attempt to hide; he’d seen that same flinch so many times over the last year. Something panged in his chest at it this time, regret or something like it. He’d started to reach out, as if he could finally bridge this gap — and the explosion had rocked the building.

It was funny, Bucky thought as they were thrown back through the wall. He’d really thought they were getting out of this one unscathed.

Back when he’d first turned himself in, when he’d scorched a path around the world marked with HYDRA’s ashes and finally walked back to the skeleton left of SHIELD, he’d accepted whatever came next. He’d had enough time, five years, to get a shaky handle on who he was and what his objectives were, and he’d mostly figured out the kinks in his augmented health — what he could eat, what implants he had to dig out, which ones he had to leave in or risk frying his brain even further.

He’d figured out how to handle Rogers. Or at least, he’d thought he had.

He was ready for those big puppy hands all over him, all those hugs he couldn’t stand to receive. He’d seen those puppy eyes, braced himself for Rogers’ assumption that his friend was back, that _his_ Bucky had returned. He’d practiced a whole little speech, shouldered on his armor, and walked in like it was a fire fight.

He hadn’t been ready for reality. Rogers didn’t demand anything — he didn’t try to drag Bucky into a big hug or stare at him with those big old doe eyes. He just…hovered. He snuck surreptitious glances out of the corner of his eyes, just a little flicker of those lashes betraying him; he waffled in doorways and bit his lip like he wanted to say something but couldn’t figure out what.

It was that uncertainty, that will-he-won’t-he that made him snap. If he’d just done something, made a choice one way or another — either treated Bucky like his old pal or like a total stranger — then Bucky could have responded and been done with it. Instead, every second he spent in Steve’s quivering company, half his mind was busy trying to guess which way he would go, plan for each path he might take. He’d tolerated it for a month before his patience snapped and he lashed out, whip-like.

After, Steve had just…disappeared. He was there, of course. He didn’t leave the city or anything so dramatic, but he never entered the room where Bucky was, never visited when Bucky swung by Natasha’s apartment. Bucky had told him to leave him alone, and Steve had taken that like a blood oath.

And now, with Steve’s body braced over him, blood dripping down across his side and splattering on Bucky’s body armor, he wished maybe he hadn’t.

There was a strained exhale from above him, and Bucky’s focus was pulled away from the shrapnel sticking out of Steve’s side and up to his face. He’d ducked his head, turned it in toward his shoulder as if to protect his face or hide. What Bucky could see, between his helmet and posture, was tightly clenched.

“Fuck,” Steve breathed out after a moment longer.

Before Bucky could say anything, he pushed off his hands to roll up onto his feet. The rubble on either side of Bucky’s head shifted a little, concrete crumbs dusting his shoulders. He laid there a second longer as Steve twisted to eye the injuries. His lips pursed, irritated, and he prodded at the edge before yanking out the shard of tank glass and tossing it to the side.

“That’s not—” Bucky started to object, but Steve had already lifted a hand to his right ear.

“Widow, Falcon, report,” he said, back to his Captain’s voice.

There was a crackle, then a cough, over the coms.

“Still kicking,” Sam replied. “There’s still no movement up here — looks like it was either a delayed or remote trigger.”

“Widow?” Steve asked after a pause.

Pulling himself up onto his feet, Bucky waited. At his sides, mismatched hands curled together, fingertips pressing hard into his palms.

“I’m here,” she said, and relief rushed through him. “But there’s a hiccup.”

Hiccups in Natasha’s dictionary were usually what others called near-catastrophic obstacles. Closing his eyes, Bucky released a slow exhale.

“…what kind of hiccup?” Sam asked.

Steve crossed his arms over his chest, stubbornly ignoring the gash through his side. With his shoulders squared and brow furrowed, he looked like he’d stepped directly out of some TIME cover.

“Well, I found the other guys,” Natasha replied, following by the distinct sound of a head colliding with concrete.

There was a beat before Steve leaned his head back, closing his eyes against the half-destroyed ceiling above them.

“Falcon, what’s your ETA?”

“Twenty seconds, Cap,” Sam answered.

Opening his eyes, Steve straightened and pulled the shield from his back.

“We’re on our way.”

Steve started toward the stairs, but Bucky lunged, grabbing his arm.

“Steve, wait.”

He froze, twisting back toward Bucky with a frown shadowing his eyes. An irrational surge of exasperation rose in Bucky’s chest, a half-remembered lifetime’s worth of chasing after the idiot.

“You can’t go into a fight like that,” he said, gesturing palm-up toward the gash.

“It’ll heal,” Steve said.

“Yeah and if it heals with a shit ton of dust and particulates in it, it’ll take twice as long to heal and you’ll be up all night with the itch.”

It ran out of him all at once, words escaping before he’d really thought them through. Some of it came from his own experiences with half-assed field medicine, but there was something older behind it, too: the memory of snow-covered pines rough against his back, the acrid sweetness of a cigarette on his lip, catching Steve’s hand to pull it away from a healing wound and interlacing —

“Let me put a Medipatch on it,” he said.

Steve studied him a long moment, the curve of his furrowed brow visible under the arch of his helmet. He looked at Bucky like a puzzle, like a riddle he hadn’t solved.

“Okay,” he said.

Surprise at the acquiescence slowed Bucky’s reaction, but he recovered and reached into his tac belt to find the first aid kit. Ripping open the foil-lined pack, he pulled the gel pad out with careful fingers and used his other hand to spread the rip in Steve’s suit enough for him to have some space to work.

His metal fingers brushed over Steve’s skin, temperature sensors lighting up with the contrast between cool metal and super-heated skin. Goosebumps pebbled up across Steve’s exposed skin. Swallowing, he focused on laying the patch on flat and smooth, using his thumbtip to press the edges down and blend them to his skin like clay on a wheel.

Immediately, the nanoparticles in the patch started to activate, spreading out and adhering until the whole messy wound was covered. Blood still painted the edges, but no more would leak out. Eyeing it, Bucky straightened and took half a step back before lifting his gaze to meet Steve’s. Blue eyes met his, open and unreadable.

There was a moment before them, a repeat of that stillness before the tank — all the questions he wanted to ask, all the words he’d never said —

“Cap, Winter, we could use a little assistance,” Natasha snapped, voice strained, over the coms.

Steve straightened, already turning to head toward the stairs at a jog.

“Headed up,” he said, and Bucky had no choice but to follow.

By the time they’d crawled out of the fray, alerted the appropriate authorities and cleaned out, exhaustion blanketed all of them as much as the dust from the explosion and fight. Sam sported bruised ribs and a cut down his cheek to his jaw and Natasha’s scalp bled from where someone had ripped a chunk of hair out and cracked her head into the wall.

Parked under the edges of the only tree to be seen for miles, they slumped around the fire like duffel bags dropped to the desert sand. A SHIELD ride was on its way, but there’d been some hang-up in the meanwhile that meant they were camping out for most the night.

“Doesn’t Stark have a place out here?” Sam griped.

“You really want him involved in this?” Natasha asked, smoothing gel over the cut on his face.

Lifting his eyebrows, Sam canted his head as much as he good without jostling her.

“I’d take a mansion with a real bed in it for the night,” he said.

Natasha breathed out a laugh, pulling back to wipe her hand off on her leg. They’d all shed decorum for the sake of comfort, and her suit was unzipped down to her belly button, a grey tanktop breaking up the sleek lines of the Black Widow. Her shoulders were dusted with the start of a tan, stark white lines marking the ghost of a swimsuit. Sam’s own suit slouched against his wings’ pack, goggles folded neatly on top, and Bucky had tossed off the heavy leather of his vest and equipment. It was too fucking hot for that.

Turning from them, Bucky glanced back over his shoulder. Unlike the rest of them, Steve still wore his uniform, and he sat apart, back against the tree and shadowed from the fire. His only concession had been to remove his helmet, but it still sat in the sand at his hip. Bucky hesitated, running a metal thumbtip over his fingerpads. Finally, he pushed himself to his feet, reaching down to grab his belt as he did.

Steve looked up as he approached, brow creasing into a dark pinch. The moonlight through the leaves dappled his skin in silver-blue patches that shifted and rippled with the breeze.

“We should change that patch,” Bucky explained, lifting his belt for Steve to see.

The confusion cleared off Steve’s face, and he shifted to open up his uniform. Tugging off the jacket-like upper, he unzipped the center panel and shucked off the left side. All of it was done with business-like brusqueness, an efficiency that was entirely about getting this done with as quickly as possible. Bucky knelt, pulling open his pouch.

The patch already on Steve’s side had dried, edges turning flaky, and all it took was a finger under one side to pry it off. A breath hissed out from behind Steve’s teeth, but he didn’t flinch or complain as Bucky peeled it off and set about replacing it.

It was quick medicine, the kind of aid meant to be completed in seconds, and it was done altogether too quickly. Still crouched on the balls of his feet, Bucky eyed the new patch for a moment, indecisive. After a moment longer, he lowered himself slowly to the sand and leaned against the tree beside Steve, arms brushing. Steve had leaned forward, arms resting on his knees.

“Got a cigarette?” he asked.

Steve turned as he sat, that thunderous frown back again, and a jolt ran through him at the question.

“No,” he said. “I don’t smoke anymore.”

“Me either,” Bucky admitted. “That and alcohol just doesn’t—”

“Do shit-all?” Steve offered.

A startled laugh husked out of Bucky, and he nodded. He remembered what it was like to get drunk, he thought, but it was from a lifetime ago. The memories were hazy both with inebriation and age.

“Thor thinks I’m immortal now.”

That…was one hell of a change in topics.

“Or he thinks the serum gives you a lifespan like an Asgardian,” Steve amended. “Five thousand years, give or take.”

“That’s a hell of a long time,” Bucky replied slowly, watching Steve.

He could only see the side of his face from this angle, but that was enough. Anguish played out across the blue of his eyes, the tense line of his mouth.

“No one else knows,” Steve said. “Thor thought I knew and just said it off-hand. But…”

He broke off, throat bobbing as he swallowed. Understanding settled heavy and hard-edged in Bucky’s gut. Hundreds had already died in the pursuit of creating the serum for its physical benefits, for strength and agility and healing. How many more would if they knew it granted eternal life — or close enough?

“Fuck,” he said for lack of anything better.

To his surprise, Steve breathed out a laugh. There was a hopeless cast to his eyes as he tilted his face up toward the star-strewn sky.

“Couldn’t say it better myself,” he replied, dry.

Rolling his eyes, Bucky jostled his arm — careful, telegraphed. Steve turned to him then, a startled smile starting on his lips. The smile broadened as he turned back to the horizon, settling in a little more firmly against Bucky’s arm.

“At least it won’t be alone,” Bucky said after a pause. “You’ve got Natasha and Banner. Hell, maybe that’ll be enough time to win over the rest of the Widows. And, I mean, sounds like I’ll be around.”

In his periphery, he could see Steve’s gaze slip sideways, looking at him through his lashes. This time, Bucky turned to meet it.

“Yeah?” Steve asked, careful.

Shrugging, Bucky leaned back into the tree. Their shoulders brushed with the motion, warmth displaced by a whisper of air.

“Sure,” he said. “Until I figure out a way into space. Can’t believe I missed the fucking moon landing.”

Steve laughed, just that soft huff of amusement, and he leaned back beside Bucky, their shoulders pressed together and hands brushing.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “that doesn’t sound so bad.”

His side was a line of warmth against Bucky’s, and his hand shifted, interlaced —

**Author's Note:**

> a sequel has been requested so /shrug that'll eventually appear
> 
> if you wanna chat about hopeless fools in love or send in requests, i'm on [tumblr](https://curiosity-killed.tumblr.com/)


End file.
